The warm rays of sun heat their backs as they step idly along the path. Armen and Mariette have been traveling since dawn, only stopping to eat some unleavened bread and dried meat as a meal. As the day progresses and their journey lengthens, they only speak on occasion to pass the time. Nothing of note to either of them, save for the occasional tree that grows odd, or a jumping rabbit that scurries across their path.
As afternoon comes, Mariette sighs, bored. "Armen, might you tell me of your life as an inquisitor?"
Armen, only looking over his shoulder for a moment, ponders her question before beckoning clarification, "What of it do you wish to know?"
"What is it like? How did you come to be in your faith? Such things as that..."
Armen, again, quiets a moment before speaking, "I was given to the church from parents I have never known. I was raised in the glorious halls of Cathedral's Inquisition chapel. My caretaker told me of my parents being destitute. How they had decided that Cathedral, in any manner of servitude, would bestow upon me a better life than that of themselves or how they could provide. My youth was spent in exclusive schooling and training, my existence given entirely to the will of the Inquisition. Mornings of prayer, noons of reading and studying scripture, eves of tutelage in war and fighting."
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Mariette listens intently, hoping to see more of himself and his kind in his biography. Yet, she sees little more as he finishes speaking.
"And, your life as an inquisitor? What do you do?" she prods further.
"I search for evil of this world, rarely must I seek further than my own hands." Armen replies, his voice tinged with a haunting regret.
"Why do you say so?"
There are a few steps taken before anything is uttered or voiced. Mariette shifts in the saddle waiting for his response, but the long pause only worries her that she had stepped beyond her welcome. Finally, with a deep breath, Armen divulges his thoughts, "In service to the Lord, and the Inquisition, I often am left to reconcile my own contentions with my actions. I know I bequeath justice whence it is due, yet, the lamentations of the wicked are as convincing as the innocent. At times, I find question in my actions, if I am righteous. Or if instead, I leave undue suffering in my own wake."
"Oh?" Mariette asks with a grave inflection.
"One instance, of which haunts me more than I should allow it...” he pauses a moment, his stride breaking into a halt, “I no longer wish to speak of this. Please, speak no more until we should arrive where we travel..." he utters in solemnity, then continues stepping, same as before.
Mariette's brow furls in worry, her eyes tinted with sorrow upon hearing his request of her, his voice holding more than words of regret. She elects to say nothing for the duration of their pilgrimage.
